The Last Resort

by Susi Holliday

  But who is James?

  Giles’s secret was almost predictable, but just like Tiggy’s and Lucy’s, James’s big reveal has come completely from left field. It makes her feel better about her own. Although the memory is still hazy and not yet fully formed, there is a familiarity about James in the video that resonates.

  James’s voice comes out in a croak. ‘I was a different person back then.’

  ‘No shit,’ Lucy mutters. No doubt turning her own memory over and over in her head.

  James clears his throat. ‘Why are they doing this to us?’ He looks around at them all. None of them are looking at him now, except for Amelia, who wants to simultaneously hug him and shake him. She’s the only one who’s heard his story. His mum, his abandonment at a precious age. Is it any wonder that he turned to drugs? Scott was right about him being an addict, but so what? James is different now. He’s no longer the skinny, disease-addled junkie from that horrible projection. But what if the story he told her earlier was a lie?

  She doesn’t know what to think anymore.

  ‘Look, I’ll just say it because no one else is going to.’ Scott crosses his arms. ‘Did you kick him into the canal? Because that seemed to be where that little performance was heading. Am I right?’

  James shakes his head. ‘No. Jesus. I didn’t kill him. I’m not a monster.’

  Lucy raises her head, catches Amelia’s eye. Neither of them speaks, but there is plenty conveyed in that look. Just as Scott has seen James, Lucy has seen her. She can feel it. A kindred link that she wants to sever straight away. You’re wrong about me, she thinks. I’m good. I’ve always been good.

  ‘That was a turning point for me,’ James says quietly. ‘I took a picture of myself with that camera. Looked at it on the screen. I saw what I’d become, and I knew I had to stop. I was heading in one direction, and I didn’t want to be that man. That damaged kid living a ruined life. I kept the camera. I used it to turn my life around.’ He lifts the camera hanging from his neck. The lens cracked, in a horrible symmetry with the memory that’s just been shared. ‘That’s why I couldn’t ditch it. Even though it’s useless to me right now. I fixed it before, and I can fix it again. I keep it, because of what it means . . .’ His voice trails off and he lets the camera go. It swings back into his chest with a thump. He raises his head and stares into Amelia’s eyes. ‘That was me then. It’s not me now.’

  Amelia nods. ‘I know.’ It’s the same thing she’s been telling herself.

  Tiggy

  They won’t let her see Giles. On the boat she’d been in shock and let them tell her what to do – to stay back from him as he was receiving treatment, to keep herself warm. They gave her hot, sugary tea, which she hated but drank anyway.

  But they’ve been in the house now for four hours, and she has no idea where Giles is. She taps the tracker and asks again: ‘Hey. When am I getting out of here?’ But it’s as if since she’s been indoors, the tracker no longer does anything – like they’ve turned it off – which makes no sense whatsoever. She’d thought maybe they’d come and take it. Odd, but they haven’t done that either. In fact, since she was brought here on the boat, and Harvey led her into this bedroom to rest, she hasn’t seen anyone at all.

  The house is pretty much what she expected. When they’d bundled her in, wrapped in blankets – head fuzzy from the tea, which must have had something other than sugar dissolved in it – she’d seen the white walls, ornate pillars and the huge wooden door. But even from her rushed transit from outdoors to in, she could tell that this wasn’t a genuine old mansion.

  She sits up against the pile of white cotton pillows, rubs her eyes and has a good look around the room. Fancy cornices, dado rails, long navy velvet curtains hung on brass poles. The furniture looks expensive, but probably isn’t. Like the facade and the fittings, this fancy house is nothing more than a replica.

  She should know.

  Growing up in one of the most prestigious white houses in Chelsea, one of those built in the 1840s by a famous London architect, she can spot a fake a mile off. She runs a hand across the bedside table, with its pretty brass lamp and its velvet shade to match the curtains. Someone has spent a lot of time making this place look expensive. But all this smacks of to her is the classless nouveau riche. The hideous sorts that have begun to infiltrate SW3, despite the best efforts of the long-term residents to keep them out. The Russians are the worst. Their money comes from unspecified means and their women, although immaculate, ooze venom. The Arabs, at least, have slightly more class, due to them having actual assets to brag about, and their women are dripping in gold yet oddly demure – in public, at least. The changing face of Kensington and Chelsea is a source of constant fascination, and if she’s honest she actually quite likes it – although her braying Sloaney Pony friends all disagree. But if that memory replay did anything, it was to serve a timely reminder that most of those people are not her friends.

  Come to think of it, she doesn’t know if she has any true friends.

  When she’d first met Giles – at a party in Kensington Roof Gardens, where he’d looked bored and she’d been sitting alone, waiting for her so-called friend Veronique to return with another bottle of Bolly – she’d thought that maybe he was different from the others. He’d seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say – and that was before she even told him that she was an influencer with 1.5 million followers, and before he’d told her that he was the biggest name in gaming. Hmph. She’d felt like an idiot then. In her business, with all the endorsements and freebies and specialised subliminal advertising she was involved in, it was prudent to understand every aspect of life. Or ‘modern life’, as Mummy always said, laughing about Tiggy to her old-money Chelsea friends that she still called on her Bakelite landline. Tiggy had never used the old phone to make a call – how would she, when all her contacts were stored in her iPhone? But she had used it in a photograph when she’d been asked to advertise some retro furniture store on the Kings Road. That post had got a hideous number of hits, and loads of comments about Mummy’s old phone. Mummy had been quite pleased about that, although she’d never tell Tiggy so. All Mummy wanted her to do was find a man with a big bank balance to settle down with and have babies. She’d been interested in Giles when Tiggy had told her his net worth, but quickly lost interest when informed that he didn’t own any property, or even a car – as he believed these to be old-fashioned entrapments.

  Monogamy, it seems, was another one of those things.

  She’d cried into a large tub of Häagen-Dazs Coconut Caramel Chocolate in Mummy’s sun lounge the first time she’d found out about Giles’s cheating, and Mummy had shaken her head and said, ‘Don’t you understand, Tiggy-wigs? This is what men do.’ She’d raised her hands towards her Baccarat crystal chandelier and said, ‘That’s the sacrifice that must be made if a lady wants to have nice things.’

  Tiggy thought that maybe she could get used to it, but the more she let him get away with it, the more he carried on. Becoming more blatant, less discreet every time. To give him credit, he always apologised when she found out, always said he didn’t love the other woman – or women – and always bought her a beautiful gift to make it up to her. After Cressida and Lorena, he’d bought her two of her favourite Baobab Powdered Rose candles and taken her for drinks at Gong – the highest cocktail bar in Western Europe, he’d proudly told her.

  She sighs. Maybe it wasn’t worth kicking off at him earlier on. It’s not like she didn’t know about his threesome at the W Hotel last summer – but there was no need for her to be shown it like that. She’d thought she was done with him, but when he’d floated into the inlet like that, her heart had sunk to her feet. Of course she loves him. He makes her laugh, he tells her she’s pretty – even when she knows she’s not as pretty as those bitches who call her names. He takes her to nice places, buys her appropriate gifts. She’d quite liked Albert, a young French sommelier she’d met when dining at Nobu one evening. She went out with him bec
ause he was cute and charming and had given her and the rest of her party several extra wines with their tasting menu – but he’d turned up for their second date with a taster-sized box of Ladurée macarons. She couldn’t even be bothered to explain why this was not appropriate, and had been sad for a moment that he was never going to be ‘the one’.

  She swings her legs off the bed and walks to the door. She’d tried the handle earlier and it wouldn’t budge. But this time it turns effortlessly. The door opens with a soft click. Her heart thumps a bit faster than before. Is it really this simple? Why have they unlocked the door? When she arrived, Harvey told her they were locking her in for her own safety, and given her more hot tea. She’d been exhausted then and glad of the rest. And she’d enjoyed the sinking feeling of collapsing into the cushions as the tea kicked in, sending her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  But she’s awake now. Maybe everything that happened before was just the way it had to be so they could appreciate real luxury. A proper rest, and now hopefully a good meal and some perfectly matched wines. That’s one thing Albert would’ve been good for.

  She opens the door and tiptoes down the hallway. There’s no sound, due to the thick pile of the carpet and the fact that she isn’t wearing shoes. She should go back for her shoes, she supposes, but she doesn’t think she’s going outside again tonight. The storm had been coming in by the time they’d arrived here on the boat. Hopefully the others are all downstairs, and Giles has recovered enough to join them for dinner.

  One foot is raised mid-air, ready to take the first step down the lavish staircase, when a gloved hand forces something rough and foul-smelling over her mouth and nose, and she feels her legs disappear and her head start to fizz; and then she feels nothing.

  Brenda

  The pain has gone now. All that’s left is a dull ache. She feels as if she’s floating. Drifting towards the ceiling with nothing to hold her back. Their voices come in and out of range, sharp, soft, echoing as if she’s sinking underwater then being forced back to the surface again. She can’t seem to open her eyes. It’s as if something has taken away that ability, and when she tries to force it, they snap shut, keeping her locked away from whatever it is out there.

  She heard the beep announcing a new message earlier. Were there just words or pictures? It doesn’t matter. The group had fallen silent, and then Scott had spoken, and James . . . and now James sounds sad.

  What did you do, James? It’s probably best she doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to know. It’s not going to help her now.

  The pain comes back – short, sharp bursts – then it goes away again and she’s drifting once more. Hot in here, then cold. Dark behind her eyelids, then light.

  She opens her mouth, says, ‘I’m scared.’ But it comes out as a groan, not words. Someone lays a hand on her arm. Squeezes her hand. ‘You’re OK,’ the voice says. Amelia? From so far away now.

  Fragments of memories swirl around her head, and she tries to screw her eyes tight, push them away. I don’t want to remember.

  They are trying to force her.

  Voices inside her head – goading her, cajoling her. Tell them what you did, Brenda . . . show them what you did . . . show them who you are . . .

  ‘No!’

  The voice again, close to her ear. ‘Brenda? What did you say? Can you hear me? Help is coming.’ Far away: ‘I think she’s trying to speak.’ Close again: ‘Help is on its way, Brenda.’

  No it isn’t.

  ‘Brenda?’ The voice swims away again. Another beep . . . loud and piercing, this time inside her head. They’re trying to show her memory. They’re trying to show them all who she is.

  No!

  ‘What’s happening to her? Is she having a fit?’ The voice is close.

  She feels her body writhe and buck, but she can’t control it. Pain comes, different now. In her arm, fast and sharp. Across her chest. She bucks again. She opens her mouth but it’s another groan.

  The beep sounds again.

  ‘It’s another projection.’ Far away. ‘I don’t even know if I want to watch it.’

  Her body bucks again, as if it’s being electrocuted.

  The voice is closer now. ‘What’s happening to her? Do something!’

  ‘The memory feed . . .’ The voice is far away. ‘It’s Brenda.’

  Her body stops twitching, and for a moment everything feels OK. She opens her eyes, squints across the room. Amelia is holding her wrist-device, aiming it at the far wall of the cave.

  ‘This one is projecting from mine,’ she says. ‘This happened earlier, with Lucy. We’re all linked together, somehow . . . Can you guys see it here with me, or is it coming through all the trackers?’

  Brenda can see herself via her own private screening, but she doesn’t bother to respond. She’s sitting at her dressing table, gazing into a vanity mirror. A younger version of herself, with bouncy, glossy blonde hair. Bright red lips, cold hard eyes.

  Behind her, reflected in the mirror, there’s another woman on-screen, dark-haired, worry etched on her face.

  As Brenda stares at the screen she puts her fingers to her left ear, finding the tracker. Her hand shakes. In her periphery she sees Amelia glance at her, her mouth falling open at Brenda’s sudden moment of lucidity. But Brenda ignores her, pulls gently on her tracker, testing to see how firmly fixed it really is.

  The dark-haired woman on-screen is holding hands with a young girl. Her blonde hair is tied in bunches, and she’s holding a small stuffed monkey under one arm. The dark-haired woman is trying to coax her away from the younger Brenda, but the girl cottons on and her mouth opens wide in a scream. ‘No.’ She throws the monkey on the ground. ‘No! I want to stay here! I want to stay here with Mummy!’

  ‘Take her,’ the younger Brenda says. ‘We all know she’ll be better off with you.’

  Brenda yanks the tracker out. The pain is excruciating. A jet of blood arcs up and over, travelling far enough to spatter across Amelia’s arm. Brenda howls, and the projection stops.

  The tracker has landed in Amelia’s lap, she picks it up and turns to Brenda, who only manages to blink then open her mouth to speak before pains shoot through her body once more and she collapses back onto the ground.

  ‘Brenda? Oh God.’ Amelia grips her shoulders. ‘Brenda?’ Her voice shrinks away. ‘Can I get some help here?’

  There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. She feels other hands on her, touching her face, her shoulders. She just wants them to stop now, but she can’t seem to find the words, and she can’t move her arms to bat them all away from her. She can’t move anything now. She tries to speak but it comes out as a groan.

  ‘They’ve said they’ll send help,’ someone says, ‘but it’s difficult with the buggies when there’s an electrical storm.’

  Her body judders once more and the voices slip away. Pain shoots across her body – as if she’s been struck hard in the chest – and then the dull light that she can still make out through her closed eyelids fades slowly to black.

  Amelia

  It’s fully dark now. Amelia watches James run after the buggy as it pulls away at speed, carrying Brenda. After a moment he gives up, walks back to the cave. He’s shaking his head, sending droplets of rain spraying around him.

  ‘I just can’t believe this. That they’d leave us here.’

  Amelia hands him one of the blankets they’ve been using as a towel. He’s drenched again from being out in that crazy rain.

  ‘This is insane,’ Scott says. ‘I say we brave the weather and get out of here.’

  ‘And go where, genius?’ Lucy says. ‘It’s pitch-dark.’ She gets up from where she’s been sitting since she arrived at the cave. She seems to have recovered from her earlier distress after her projection – but then, is it really so surprising? If you keep a secret like that locked away for years, you have to find coping mechanisms. Amelia knows that from personal experience. The deeper you bury something, the harder it is to find.

&nb
sp; ‘The rain has to stop at some point,’ Amelia says. ‘We’re warm and dry. We just need to wait it out for a bit.’

  Lucy turns to her. ‘How come you’re so calm all the time, Amelia? Everyone else has had something horrible happen to them today, except you. What’s that all about?’

  Amelia tries to keep her voice neutral. ‘I told you at the start. I’m used to extreme situations.’

  Lucy puffs out air. ‘Right. But this one is not entirely normal, is it?’ She cocks her head. ‘It’s almost as if you know exactly how to deal with it all. As if you’re expecting it, even. That whole thing with your tracker . . .’ She lurches forward and grabs Amelia by the wrist. ‘How come you got this one? How come you aren’t asking it to help us out of here?’ She grips harder.

  Amelia yanks her arm away, catching Lucy on the shoulder and sending her spinning backwards. ‘Hey—’ she starts, but Amelia is having none of it.

  She surges forward, thrusts her face close to Lucy, who backs off further. ‘We know what you did. And we know what you do now, destroying people’s lives with your gossip and lies.’

  ‘Hang on. Have a word with your boyfriend about that.’ She nods at James. ‘He takes the photos. That’s just as bad, is it not?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ James says, crossing his arms. ‘It’s not like that . . .’

  ‘Thought you were a paparazzo?’ Scott chimes in, amusement on his face. ‘Long lens privacy destruction, right?’

  James shakes his head. ‘No. Not like that. I go to things that the press is invited to. I don’t stalk people as they go about their lives.’

  ‘You sell the photos though.’ Scott raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Of course I do – it’s my job. But I mean, I go to a prearranged event and I hustle for the best position, and I try to get the best, most flattering shot. I’m not hiding in the bushes trying to take photos of royalty in their underwear.’